


Kindly Stopped for Me

by mistyzeo



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen, sherlockfest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-10
Updated: 2010-10-10
Packaged: 2017-10-13 01:59:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/131554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During his illness in Afghanistan, John Watson is treated by a doctor he doesn't recognize.  Title from the Emily Dickinson poem "Because I Could Not Stop for Death."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kindly Stopped for Me

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  ____spacer____
> 
> For [](http://community.livejournal.com/sherlockfest/profile)[**sherlockfest**](http://community.livejournal.com/sherlockfest/)'s biweekly challenge.
> 
> ~1100 words, unbetaed, with a lot of made-up shit. Also JW is slightly gay, because he can't not be.

  
I do not remember much from my weeks-long bout of enteric fever while I was in the service, but the things I do remember give me chills, even now, as I sit at my desk in Baker Street with Sherlock Holmes worrying his violin by the merrily crackling fireplace.

I remember being so cold I thought I was freezing in a snow bank, and then so hot I imagined myself to be aflame. I remember being too parched to beg for water and the sharp stench of my soiled bedclothes. I remember the feeling of my heart beating so reluctantly in my chest that I sometimes thought it would stop altogether. I remember praying at times, God help me, that it _would_ stop, and so put me out of my misery for good.

As a medical man, I know a common symptom of the fever is delirium. Indeed, I have seen it myself in other patients. But I have a recollection of an incident that took place during my illness that is so clear and precise that I cannot give it over entirely to the realm of hallucination.

I have no idea how long I had been abed, nor how long I had been lucid. I remember lying awake in the dark, my head clear but my body burning up, wishing I was asleep so that I might not have to know my own situation. I must have made some noise, for a doctor appeared in the corner of my vision and approached my bed.

"You're awake," the physician said, very softly, not wishing to awaken or upset the other patients. "Are you thirsty?"

I nodded, finding myself unable to speak, and he brought me water. I did not recognize his face in the dim light of the medical tent, although I thought myself familiar with all of the doctors in my company. His uniform was shabby and worn, and the cut of his coat was strange, even old fashioned. The name badge on his chest said A. MORRIS. He looked as though he'd not seen much sleep in the last few weeks: the shadows under his eyes were deep and purpled, and his skin looked waxy and pale. Still, his eyes were clear and sharp, and his hands were steady.

"Drink it carefully," he said, helping me to sit up halfway, his arm under my shoulders. His fingers were cool on my skin, cooler than the water in the tin cup, and I marveled at the relief they brought.

"Thank you," I rasped as he lay me back down. I sounded ruined, pathetic, but he only smiled sadly and nodded.

"Not at all, John," he said. "You know I would do anything for you."

The use of my Christian name was strange enough-- I had not heard anyone use it in some time, perhaps months, being known only by my title or my surname-- but what he said made no sense at all to me. He must have seen the confusion on my face, for he touched my cheek then with his cool fingers, in what could have been nothing other than a caress.

Even through the fever, my blood ran cold and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up, damp with sweat. I couldn't move, couldn't turn away from the touch. It wasn't unwelcome-- quite the opposite-- but that was the trouble. I thought I'd hidden that part of myself so well, and here was a strange doctor touching me like no one had since I'd left university in London.

Either he did not feel my discomfort, or he did not care, for he pulled away slowly and whispered, "Try to sleep. I will be here when you wake again."

I did sleep, though I do not know how I managed it. But it was morning when I opened my eyes, and the nurse, Margaret, hurried over when she saw me moving.

"Doctor Watson," she said, "how are you feeling?"

"Terrible," I said honestly. Everything ached. "Was there someone here last night?"

Margaret looked at me askance, and I closed my eyes again. "Hattie was here until midnight," she said, "and Cora from midnight until eight this morning."

"Any doctors?" I asked. My throat felt sore, but not as impossibly raw as last night.

"It was quiet, Doctor Watson," Margaret said. "Doctor Hardison was on duty, but he was able to sleep the night through."

I opened my eyes, surprised. "No one else?"

She shook her head. "No one else." Then, changing the subject uncomfortably, "Do you feel up for breakfast, Doctor?"

Two days later my fever broke, but I was a ruined man. I was so thin I could feel each of my ribs through my skin quite easily, and my hips were so narrow I cinched my belt to the last hole to keep my trousers up. I was discharged and sent home. I never again saw the physician who had come to me in the night and touched me the way a worried lover might, and for a while in England I shrank from touch altogether.

After I moved into Baker Street, I recalled the incident one morning, suddenly, and made an exit from the flat that would have done Holmes proud in my hurry to the Public Record Office.

Andrew Morris, Surgeon of the Army Medical Department, had died in 1841 in an hospital tent in Afghanistan during the first campaign, caring for a company struck down by typhoid. The tent had been attacked by Afghans and burned to the ground in the night, and no one had survived. One of the soldiers in the company was a young man called John Parker, and a little more searching told me that the two of them had served together for several years. It was not a difficult leap to make in thinking they might have been particular friends. This took place forty years before I was in Afghanistan myself.

I have not told Holmes this story. I avoid talking about my illness and injuries as much as possible; I admit I don't like the thought that he might see them as a weakness and leave me behind. Besides, he is a man of reason, and no doubt he would scoff at my memory as the nervous imaginings of an invalid.

Still, I will never forget the touch of Morris's cold fingers on my cheek, nor the kindness he showed me that night, even if it was not meant for me.


End file.
